Don't go where I can't follow
by cumbercookie530
Summary: Set 6 months after "The Fall." John wakes up after another nightmare and decides he just can't take it anymore. Mild Johnlock. TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE, CHARACTER DEATH. Angst. Lots of Angst. Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Please R
1. Chapter 1

John sat straight up in his bed, a thin sheen of sweat covered his skin. John squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes. John bit his lip to quiet the screams that were dying in his throat. He looked over at the time, it was barley 2am. It was always the same nightmare. It had plagued him every night for the last six months. It always started with him looking up at Sherlock on the roof at Bart's, and it always ended with him jolting awake with his friends name dying in his throat. The tears began to flow down John's cheeks. He bit his lip so hard it drew blood in a fruitless attempt to silence the chocked sobs coming from his mouth. John got up shakily and made his way to his bedroom door grabbing his dressing gown on his way out. As he made his way to the kitchen his eyes fell upon Sherlock's violin, that lay on window sill exactly where Sherlock had left it. Suddenly the fragile glue that had been barely holding John together broke. All the sadness, and the painful ache in Johns chest exploded. It was all too much, he couldn't hold on any longer. A part of him always believed that Sherlock was still alive. But that small whispering hope was now drowned out by the screaming emptiness and truth that now seemed as obvious as the violin on the couch. Sherlock was gone, and he wasn't coming back. John grabbed the nearest writing utensil, and ripped two pages out of his medical notebook. Wiping the tears from his face he sat down and began to write.

* * *

John folded one slip of paper and addressed it with a name. The other piece of paper he left unfolded and placed the two pieces of paper side by side. John walked into the bathroom and fumbled with the faucets on the bath, turning the water on as hot as he could stand. While the bath filled up, John went back to the kitchen and opened the knife drawer. John's hand hovered over each of the handles before selecting the sharpest and thickest of them all. He gripped the handle and limped back to the bathroom, tears beginning to spill I over and his vision blurred. John shut the bathroom door, feeling the steamy heat from the bath as it filled the small space. John stripped off his clothes folding them and placing them neatly in a pile on the floor next to the toilet. He placed the kitchen knife on a soap holder in the bathtub, and lowered himself into the water. He leaned his head back against the tile and took a shaky breath. He glanced over at the knife that was laying within arm's reach. Moisture began gathering on John's face and soon he couldn't tell if his face was wet because of the steam or because of his tears. He had thought about doing this once before, but that was pre-Sherlock. The day before they met. John had felt so useless and empty after being sent home from the war. But Sherlock had saved him from himself, kept him going. As much as he had complained about it when it was happening, he missed it, the excitement, the running around London, shooting the wall early in the morning, the experiments in the fridge. It kept him alive, gave him a reason to live. This time, though, Sherlock wasn't there to save him, no one could. John grabbed the knife with a now steady hand, he turned it over a couple times in his hands. John looked at his reflection in the blade, nodded at himself once, then proceeded. He positioned the tip at the blade at the top of his wrist, and with a deep breath dug the knife in and dragged it all the way to his elbow. He gasped in pain, and stifled a scream as this arm turned bright red as the blood dripped out. Taking the knife in his now bleeding arm he duplicated the action on the other arm digging in even harder. John grunted in pain, and he threw the knife out of the tub onto the bathroom floor. Droplets of booed scattered where it landed and the originally white bathroom floor was now polka dotted with splashes of blood. John lowered his arms into the steaming water, gritting his teeth against the new sting of pain that rushed through him. The clear water that surrounded him quickly turned murky and red. John leaned his head back against the wall and panted. Even under the water he could feel with every heart beat the blood gushing out. After a few minutes John began to get dizzy, the bathtub in front of him went in and out of focus. John sighed as he felt his body beginning to go limp and his breaths becoming more shallow. When his vision began to get dark around the edges, he closed his eyes and took a strangled deep breath preparing to slip into unconsciousness. All of sudden he heard the bathroom door fly open and a terrified gasp followed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note: **Guy's...I'm so sorry, I wrote this chapter, debated about the ending, re-wrote it, read it, debated, and re-wrote it again. I meant to post this a few days ago, I did not mean to leave you with such a terrible cliff hanger. I would promise you that it gets better but...Anyway here you go Chapter 2, very angst filled.

* * *

Sherlock stared in horror at the sight before him. In the middle of the floor lay a bloody kitchen knife. He looked up to the bathtub and there in the middle of a bathtub sitting in bloody water was John.  
"John" Sherlock choked out as he fell on his knees at the side of the bathtub. He hastily placed his arms into the bath tub and pulled John out onto the floor. He then pulled John's head into his lap, gasping at the angry, red, vertical lines, that were dripping with blood. Sherlock hastily grabbed two towels and pressed them to the wounds in attempt to stop the bleeding. Sherlock could hear the sirens right outside baker street, and he silently thanked Mycroft for installing cameras in the flat so long ago.  
"John can you hear me?" Sherlock said trying to keep his voice level. John grunted and opened his eyes, they looked unfocused at first but then they concentrated on Sherlock's face.  
"Sherlock," John said weakly "is that you?"  
Sherlock could feel the tears welling up in his eyes.  
"Yes it's me," Sherlock said feeling the first tear roll down his face. John closed his eyes and smiled weakly,  
"Well shit," he said chuckling softly "I guess I was right, you bastard"  
Sherlock's tears began to fall, this was all his fault. If he had just come back earlier that day like he had planned John would still be alive.  
"Keep your eyes open for me, please" Sherlock said hugging John to his chest, voice breaking at the last word. He could hear the paramedics making their way up the stairs  
"I...I" John said extremely softly, taking breaths raggedly for each word "left you...a note" Sherlock shook his head willing for himself to wake up, willing for this all to be a terrible nightmare.  
"You are going to be fine John" Sherlock choked out "please keep fighting, stay awake."  
"Sherlock," John whispered "I-I-" And then John went limp. Just then the paramedics burst in to the bathroom.  
"He-he" Sherlock choked out, the paramedics felt for a pulse and looked over at Sherlock sympathetically.  
"He's alive, but just barely" one of the paramedics said

"we need to get him out of here now" said the other paramedic removing the blood soaked towels from John's arms and tying tourniquets tightly to John's biceps right above his elbow. John was then lifted onto the gurney and was rushed downstairs to the waiting ambulance. Sherlock shakily stood up, and stumbled to the kitchen sink to wash off his hands. His shirt was soaked in a mixture of water and John's blood. He felt numb. Sherlock was going to surprise John later that morning by announcing he was alive. He had planned to do it early that night but had gotten lost in his mind palace till two in the morning, and had immediately jumped up and hailed a cab to go to 221B. Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table and placed his head in his hands. Suddenly he noticed the two sheets of paper, one of them was folded and his name was written in John's hand writing. Sherlock grabbed the letter and unfolded it hesitantly looking at the paper sadly, seeing that it was covered with tear stains, that were still wet in the middle. Sherlock could feel the tears beginning to form again in his eyes, and a lump rising in his throat. Taking a deep breath, and blinking his eyes a couple times to clear them, he began to read.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm not even sure why I'm writing this. I guess a part of me has, and always will believe that you are alive. So on the off chance that you might actually read this, I just wanted to say thank you. I know that our time as flat mates was not always very smooth, but I don't regret any of the time we spent together. You helped me so much Sherlock, I was so alone and you came along and saved me from myself. You helped me find a reason to keep going. Even if that meant getting dragged around all over London on a crazy wild goose chase and getting insulted. You gave my life meaning again, there was never a dull moment with you. Then after that dreadful day at Bart's when you jumped, my world came crashing down around me again. I knew there must've been a good reason but it left me alone and empty again. Please don't blame yourself for this, you simply helped post-pone the inevitable for the time that we were living together. I miss you so much Sherlock, and it took you leaving me to realize how much I care about you. I know you aren't one for sentiment but I'm going to say it anyway. I love you Sherlock, and I wish I would've told you sooner. Anyway, this is good bye my friend. Thank you again for everything _

_Love _

_John Watson _

Sherlock crumpled the edge of the paper and let out a choked sob as the tears ran down his face making a puddle on the table before him. John couldn't leave him, not now. He was going to make it, there was still a chance, however slight, that he could still make it out of this. Then when John came home he would hug him and not let him go and tell him that he loved John too.

Just then his phone rang. Sherlock grabbed it frantically checking the caller ID. It was Mycroft, Sherlock answered it and waited silently for Mycroft to speak on the other end.

"I'm so sorry" Mycroft's voice said quietly "he didn't make it, lost to much blood, he didn't even make it to the hospital, there was nothing they could do" Tears began to pour down his face, denial screaming through his body. "I'm so so sorry Sherlock, Doctor John Watson is dead."


End file.
